The context is also ephemeral. Property developers have cast a shadow over the homes in these photographs.

I have pressing conversations with neighbours. We shed frustration. The impositions are beyond our control. Proposals beyond comprehension.

There’s nothing wrong with my house. Why do they want to knock it down?

Words fail us. We feel impotent and angry.

People let me into their homes. I hear stories; gather evidence. Some of it makes sense. Some of it troubling. The rooms, the memories
and the inhabitants reflect each other. Empty rooms as full as those overflowing. We talk about making pictures. We shape inanimate tableaus. An ephemeral trust develops.

An old Jamaican man tells me…

When you wake you should knock three times on your pillow to remember your dreams.

I ask people about their dreams…

I speak with children. The world is their dream.

I speak with adults. Some want to know what happened.

Others know their dreams are behind them and are more concerned about being awake.

I learn that everything is ephemeral and that if there is such a thing as sanctuary, it lies within this understanding.